Sands of Fortune
by Pikdude
Summary: In background and personality, they couldn't be more different. The only thing Sadira and Mozenrath have in common- a burning hatred of Aladdin. An alliance is in order, but will the Dark Ruler get more than he bargained for? Rated T for language and violence. Darkfluff.
1. Chapter One: The Beginning

**Introduction**

**Hello, dear readers! Welcome to the premier of my very first request fic! Thanks be to the requester, who will go anonymous for the time being.**

**So, some minor details here. First: I do go off the strict canon here. Bear with me and message if you have any specific questions- my beta reader was most thorough, so I have good reasons for all of my deviations.**

**Second: I use a writing style that's rather unique. At first look it appears I switch from third person to first person and back again, but it is not the case. I take the standpoint of a third-party omniscient observer, so there are character thoughts mixed in with events. They are marked by italics, which are also used to emphasize individual words. It isn't that hard once you get used to it. I also use point of view writing in a third person context.**

**With that out of the way, I present to you:**

**Sands of Fortune. **

It was two years after she had finally given up on Aladdin. Oh, she'd put on a show, pretending to be "good" and "buddying up" with Jasmine- but she remembered. She remembered every second of loving him. She remembered every moment she'd spent wasting her life pursuing him. And a strange thing had happened to that love- it had changed, darkened. Where before had burned a foolish desire, a great big ball of hatred now squatted. She felt anger coursing through her veins when she thought of him. Occasionally she would see him from a distance, flying around on his magic carpet with _Jasmine._

That stuck-up Princess infuriated her. She forced a smile when they met, but really she just wanted to punch her in the face. And then trap her in a giant cocoon of sand. And punch her in the face again. The bitch deserved it.

The oath she'd taken surfaced in her mind. _Do no harm._ In her travels she had honed and perfected her magics until she had absolute confidence in them. But she had also decided to dedicate her life to doing something useful with her magic- to heal instead of destroy. She'd become a healer. A magi devoted to preserving life. Herbalist, midwife, doctor and apothecary- she'd worn all of these titles at one time or another. She'd even thought, then several hundred miles away from this city, that she could move on past Aladdin. Forget him.

Two years was a long time to have been travelling. A lot can change in two years on your own, on a mercy mission to whomever needed it. But she'd returned. One thing hadn't changed.

She still hated him.

She'd struggled with the problem for a long time. Even though she still hated him with a burning passion, two years of fighting to save lives instead of taking them still gave her pause. Eventually, she'd decided to find some help. _Loopholes._ Aladdin had other enemies, she was sure. It was just a matter of finding them.

In the guise of a street rat, just another humble peasant, she sprang off into the dust of the city. _Soon, Aladdin,_ She gloated mentally. _Soon you shall lie dead._

* * *

The man was heavily muscled. Truly, a marvellous specimen among men. A man like that should fear none.

But he feared one. He knelt before that one. His life rested on the whims of that one.

"My Lord," he said in a hushed tone. "I have returned."

"You don't say." His voice was silky-smooth and yet laced with power. "Truly, your powers of observation astound me." The man trembled under the verbal onslaught. A smile tugged at the corner of the smooth-voiced man's perfectly sculpted mouth. He greatly enjoyed the fear he so obviously inspired in the man. "But that is aside. What news do you bring?"

"Aladdin has not moved. He rests in the palace with that royal whore and only leaves for rides on his carpet."

"Is the palace well guarded?"

"The djinni stands watch by day and by night. Although the princ- Aladdin," he said hastily, seeing storm clouds gather on his master's brow, "Set him free, he remains devoted to him. Aladdin is not vulnerable there." The master frowned.

"What of these carpet rides?" The man grinned, happy to finally have something of use to report.

"Aladdin wishes for privacy. The djinni is nowhere to be seen." The master thought about it for a moment. Perfect. He could strike then, when that foolish peasant was focused on the princess.

"Thank you." The servant had outlived his usefulness. "Kill him." The man died with a surprised look on his face. The unspoken question _why _remained unformed on his lips.

"Is it my fault you were so trusting?" quipped Mozenrath, ruler of the Black Sand. With a spin and a flourish of his cape, he was gone from the throne room.

* * *

**Two Weeks Later**

Agrabah at night. The oppressive heat of the day quickly gave way to a startling chill as the sun set and took its warmth with it. A few lights burned across the city, but oil was expensive and most of the lights were gone within an hour of sundown. In the dark, each building began to resemble every other building in the city, and anyone who hadn't lived in the city their entire life would quickly become hopelessly lost.

It had been a while, but Sadira still remembered. She jumped up, catching the edge of a roof and catapulting herself over and on to it using the strength in her arms. She tucked and rolled, springing up and immediately finding her stride. Her breathing settled into a steady rhythm- in, out, in, out- that matched the beating of her heart. Occasionally she would gather herself and leap to another rooftop, landing lightly with no sound.

Stealth was the key to being a good street rat, and Sadira had been the best. She'd learned very young to be light on her feet and agile in her movements; years of training showed in her slim yet muscular form and the grace in her stride. The very way she ran- stooped over slightly, shoulders hunched an infinitesimally small degree- gave her the appearance of a predator on the hunt.

Below her in the streets, two thugs walked in the darkness.

"Did you hear the way she screamed?" One said, laughing cruelly.

"Oh, I know! And then the way she sounded when you shoved your-" He stopped, a strange gurgling noise coming from his mouth. His friend turned to see what it was.

"Hey, are you oka-" He froze as he saw the blade through his friend's neck. Sadira withdrew it with a sickening _shlick._ The thug hit the ground with a thud. The remaining one pulled a long, sharp knife out of the waistline of his pants.

"You'll regret that!" He hissed at Sadira. He stepped forward and slashed out with the knife.

She still remembered her first fight. Two years after the plague had claimed her sister's life. Two years after the day she'd sworn vengeance on the greedy bastards who had refused to give up the medicine that would have saved her. She'd been about ten years old at the time, orphaned and living as a street rat in the slums of Agrabah. Starving, homeless, she'd finally managed to steal herself a meager loaf of bread. She'd curled up in a corner to eat it when the big man had came in and took the bread from her.

Anger; hot, blazing anger had sprang up in her and she'd leapt to her feet, ready to take this man on. He'd just laughed and left her sprawled in the dust, bruised and bleeding.

Sadira ducked under the slash, lashing out with her leg and delivering a kick to the thug's chest. He flew backward with an _oof,_ hitting the ground hard. She stomped on the arm holding the knife, snapping his radius in half. He screamed in pain and dropped the knife.

She remembered her first kill. She'd broken into the carpenter's and taken a small carving knife. She'd walked up to the man who'd stolen her bread and told her he was going to die. She had driven the knife into his stomach while he laughed in his arrogance. She had stabbed him again and again until he was the one lying on the floor, bleeding from dozens of deep wounds. Rage had made her blind- every bit of anger, resentment, and murderous hatred exploded out of her. Her sister's death. Stab. Her mother's death. Stab. Her father's abandonment. Stab. She'd left the knife impaled in his eye.

The thug in the present whimpered as Sadira swiftly kicked him in the ribs, breaking them. Then she bent over him.

_"Burn in hell,"_ She whispered in Hindi, bringing the blade of her katar across his throat in a swift, violent movement. Blood sprayed up from his neck. He gurgled for a moment and was still. She rested for a moment and closed his eyes with two fingers. She sent a silent prayer to whatever might be listening. _Give this one what he deserves._

It had been back then, in that dusty alley, that she'd learned the secret to winning fights. It wasn't being more skilled. It wasn't being stronger.

It was being angrier.

Sadira had traveled the world for two years. She'd served as many things- a midwife, a healer, an apothecary, a witch- and she'd seen so many pointless deaths. Mothers, sometimes as young as twelve years old, sacrificing their lives to bring a child into the world. Stillborn infants who died as they left the womb. Young girls, bruised and beaten as the result of an abusive spouse. Young men and women who'd simply starved to death in the streets because nobody cared enough to feed them. Innocents killed because they looked the wrong way at a noble.

She stood up, dusting off her garments. She wiped the blood off of her blade with one of the thug's shirts, tucking it back into its place, sheathed securely near the small of her back. She'd been too late to stop them from violating that girl. But she had taken revenge.

So much suffering. So much death.

Sadira was very, very angry.

* * *

The dark emperor paced his chambers, his cape billowing behind him and his loyal familiar Xerxes frantically trying to keep up with him.

"I've done _everything,_" He griped, frustration written all over his expression. "I've trapped them, I've trapped them again, I've even hired a bounty hunter to take care of that damned djinni- but nothing works!" He paused, looking at the floating eel. "What am I doing wrong, Xerxes? What haven't I thought of?"

"A vacation," Xerxes said under his breath. Mozenrath heard it anyways and waved away the suggestion.

"Nonsense. Vacations are for the weak. Think, Mozenrath, think!" He screwed up his face, descending deep into his thoughts. There was a knock at the door. "Oh, for the love of-" He threw open the door using a spell. "What?" He asked irritably. The servant paled.

"S-sir," he stammered. "T-there's been rumours in the marketplace, and-" Mozenrath scoffed.

"You come to me with your _gossip_ and hope that justifies interrupting me?" He raised the arm with The Gauntlet on it.

"There was a woman!" The servant yelped, panicking. " A woman in the markets looking for you! Please don't kill me, sir, I-" Mozenrath was suddenly very close.

"What woman?" He said in a low voice. The servant scrabbled for this lifeline.

"I don't know sir, she was wearing a niqab, and a robe. Looked very shady, sir." Mozenrath stalked away.

"Interesting," he said to himself. "It could be a spy." Xerxes crept to his side.

"Or ally." It remarked. Mozenrath cast a sideways glance.

"Explain yourself."

"Mozenrath called 'evil.' Known widely. Who look for Mozenrath who is not also evil?" Mozenrath tapped his chin and turned to the servant.

"Have her followed. Report everything and have her snatched as soon as night falls." The servant inclined his head and carefully backed out of the room closing the door behind him. Mozenrath turned to face a dark corner of the room.

"Destane!" Some _thing_ shuffled out of the darkness. Its skin hung loosely off of its body and its eyes were blank and dead. Mozenrath smiled, a small, cruel smile. This broken shell was all that remained of his former master. "Go with the snatchers. Show this woman exactly what happens to people who cross _me._"

His presence should serve to frighten the woman, as well as send a clear message. Mozenrath was not to be trifled with. The once alive and repulsive man shuffled off, back into the darkness to crawl through the dark, slimy places he deserved. As a child, Mozenrath had often fantasized about killing Destane. When the chance had finally came, he hadn't killed him. He'd forced him into his service and magicked him so he couldn't even die to escape. Destane had been less than human to begin with. This was just it showing.

He returned to his desk and removed the Gauntlet, clenching the skeletal hand beneath. That damned Gauntlet. It was what enabled his power, but some part of it was slowly destroying him. It had begun with his arm before Mozenrath had found a way to dampen the effect. It was too late, however- all of the flesh was gone from his arm.

The bones of his fingers clicked as they moved. His greatest strength, also his greatest weakness. He had no idea what kept his ligaments from decaying. He lived in fear of losing the arm. He protected the bones at all costs, knowing full well how easy it was to break a bone. He'd broken a few himself. Other people's, of course.

He still remembered how it had felt when he'd felt Destane's skull crack in his grip. His fingers flexed with the memory. He relished it.

Mozenrath didn't lie to himself. He enjoyed the pain of others. He liked to see people suffer. However, he did recognise when to exercise restraint. Sadism was a luxury he rare afforded himself.

Suddenly he felt a tugging sensation. His vision sharpened until his normally invisible aura appeared, a faint circle of black surrounding him. He shot to his feet and threw open a window. _This feeling. I know this feeling._ He hadn't felt it since he'd taken down Destane. _Another magician is nearby._ The streets beneath his view were thronged with people. None of them had a visible aura. He shut his eyes, tuning out the sights and sounds of the city.

It was an inexplicable fact. Mozenrath's strongest sense was smell. The city smelt of bodies, incense, animals and... _Wait._ There was an unfamiliar smell. Something foreign, like an exotic spice from a vendor, except he knew all of them. This was unknown. _I've got you now._ He opened his eyes and he could see the lingering trail of a very powerful aura, rivaling even his own. It was the color of blood.

The tugging feeling began to fade and his vision slowly returned to normal. The magic user was gone. But he remembered that aura. He would know the next time he felt it.

And he would find whoever it was.

* * *

They weren't terribly good.

She'd spotted them almost right away, a group of ordinary people except for the fact that whatever innocent activity they appeared to be doing, somehow they always ended up following her. Somebody had set a tail on her.

She'd felt a massively powerful magical presence earlier that had given her a scare. Magic users can detect each other. The efficiency of this process is governed by a few laws: Distance, Power, and Use. The further away they are, the fainter the trail is. The more powerful the user, the more obvious their aura. The more they used their power, the stronger it grew.

This aura had been extremely powerful. She'd only been on the very edge of it's influence and she'd still almost been crushed with the sheer potential of it. She knew the other had felt her- they had to have. Whoever it was had probably sent these ones after her.

They didn't seem to pose an immediate threat, so she refocused on her main goal. So far, it seemed like Aladdin didn't have any enemies that weren't dead or in prison. She'd heard a faint rumor, the mere suggestion of a name: Mozenrath. But asking around had yielded nothing. She'd been able to see it in their faces- Mozenrath was a name they feared much more than this weird woman running around in a niqab, asking questions she shouldn't. None of them would talk, except to tell her that he was the ruler of some Black Sands place she'd hardly ever heard of. The entire day, wasted.

Sadira yawned. She was exhausted. Searching for Aladdin's enemies by day and exacting her vigilante revenge at night was leaving very little time for sleep. It was running her ragged.

The call for evening prayer sounded across the city from the high towers of the mosque. Sadira glanced up at the sky. The sun was fat and heavy and slowly sinking over the horizon. It would be dark soon.

She turned around to find a man staring at her. Normally, men didn't scare her, but there was something different about this one. He was clad from head to toe in black cloth. Only his eyes showed from a black turban. He stood absolutely still, arms at his sides unnaturally. She glanced around. The street had emptied far too quickly. She turned around again to see another man in black robes blocking the other end of the street.

It was a trap. She turned back to the first man.

"You will come with us." A command, not a request. His voice was gravelly and low. More black men appeared, surrounding her completely. Her talwar was back in her hideout. All she had were her katar. The men didn't appear armed, but they positively emanated maliciousness. She doubted she could take them all. There was no choice but to go forward with this.

They hustled her along back alleys, marching with a mechanical precision- perfectly in sync. She lost track of the turns after the thirtieth. She didn't recognize the area they were in. That was strange. She knew the entire city, inside and out.

She gasped as she felt his presence. It was the same one from earlier. If anything, it was stronger now, pulsing and throbbing with raw, uncontained energy. She could see it, faintly in the air- black tendrils of smoke writhing around like slimy things. Oh, this was bad, this was very bad. She couldn't allow herself to be captured by whoever it was.

She turned to sand, a million particles of her falling only to reform behind one of the guards. Her katar was in her hand and she sunk it deep into the back of the guard. He slowly inclined his head, looking back at the katar embedded in his back. Then he turned, completely unaffected. She ripped off his turban, intending to slash at his head with her other katar. She screamed in horror and stumbled backwards at the sight.

The man was dead. His skin hung off of his face, yellow and shrunken. His eyes were blank white and seemed dry in their sockets. They had no pity, no anger- no emotion at all.

"That was not wise." His voice was horrid, all cracked and hoarse. She could see the decay emerging from his lungs as he spoke. "If you attempt to use your magic again, you will be punished." She struggled to find her voice.

"W-What are you?" She asked in terror.

"My name is Destane." _Destane._ She knew that name well. In her youth there had been stories- stories of the horrible, horrible things he did to women. Seduced them into his harem and then experimented on them… "Now I serve Mozenrath."

Of course. Mozenrath. He owned that aura. But if he'd taken down Destane and made him into this… thing, what would he do to her? The thing that used to be Destane roughly pulled her to her feet, shoving her out in front of him. The terrible procession continued.

Finally she was marched into a huge building, its contours hidden in the darkness. The ground beneath her feet changed from sand to polished marble. That wasn't good. She couldn't use her sand magic if there wasn't any sand. The interior was pitch dark, but the men seemed to know where they were going. Finally they left her in a large, open space. She could see none of it, but she could feel the air currents in the room. They were cold and heavy.

"So." His voice rang in the silence. It was smooth, but laced with power. "Rumor has it you've been looking for Mozenrath." A light flared up, illuminating an arm clad in a steel gauntlet. The arm waved lazily, and the fire in his palm flew around the room, setting dozens of torches ablaze. "You found him."

That first moment seemed to last forever. She was not expecting him to be handsome. His face was delicately sculpted, all sharp angles and smooth light brown skin. His eyes were his most astonishing feature- they were gold. His pupils looked like a cat's. The effect was strangely beautiful. Slowly, she pulled off her niqab.

He looked at her for an agonizingly long time. Finally, she saw the corner of his pretty mouth curl up.

"Hello," he said. "Let's talk."

* * *

If she hasn't been prepared for him, he sure hadn't been prepared for her. A lifetime of reading people allowed him to see as much of her personality as her appearance.

The moment she pulled off her niqab, he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Her face wasn't beautiful in and of itself. Her eyes were the usual color; her skin slightly darker than the norm. A thin white scar stretched its way from the corner of her left eye across her cheek. Her hair fell smoothly down around her head, sleek and yet not glossy. It was plain and that in itself spoke volumes.

Her posture was strong and proud, and yet had a predatory lean to it. Her face was a mixture of defiance and fear. Her hands were clenched into fists. He noticed nail marks on the side of her palms, indicating she balled her fists frequently. She was angry a lot. Her eyes were soft and yet hard, speaking of compassion backed by an unrelenting wrath, born of strife and loss. There were more frown lines than laugh lines in her skin of her mouth.

Now that they were so close, he could clearly see her aura. It blazed brightly in a scarlet red, the color of blood. She was very, very powerful, and used to carrying this power. The corner of his mouth curled up.

"Hello," he said lazily. "Let's talk." He rose to his feet, his robes billowing around him. "You were looking for me. You obviously know who I am. Do you see the disadvantage this puts me at? You see, I don't know who you are. So-" he wheeled around and directed a penetrating stare at her. "Who are you?"

She swallowed before answering.

"I am Sadira." Her voice was strong and melodious. "I'm a sand witch." His eyebrow raised skeptically.

"THE Sand Witch?" He asked dubiously. She merely nodded. "I'd heard of a new leadership among them. But, the question still remains. Why are you here?"

"Because," she said, seeing an opening. "You're the only one who hates Aladdin as much as I do."

* * *

He snapped his fingers.

"Of course! You're that little witch who was always obsessed with Aladdin!" He looked pleased with himself, then frowned. "I thought you'd made your peace and are in good with that filth." A stormy expression came over Sadira and her aura grew even darker.

"I… thought I had." She spoke quietly. "I haven't." Mozenrath nodded, feeling a twinge of sympathy that he immediately stamped out. It wouldn't do to be growing a conscience.

"I see." He said it without inflection, leaving her to interpret the connotation as she would. He remained silent for moments that seemed to stretch for hours. "This does put you in a rather convenient place to strike at Aladdin." She nodded.

"I have access to the palace. The only issue is the djinni." Mozenrath began to pace back and forth.

"Not an issue. If you kill him quickly, you can be away before anyone realizes."

"No." Sadira interrupted him. "We don't kill him." Her words hung heavily in the air. Mozenrath froze, a penetrating stare directed at her.

"Think carefully about your next words," Mozenrath warned. Sadira swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, before continuing.

"I don't want him to die. I want him to suffer more than any human has ever suffered before." Another skeptical eyebrow.

"And how do you propose to accomplish this?" She launched into a massive explanation of a plan that was so diabolic, so cruelly _evil_ the the Dark ruler wondered that he hadn't come up with it himself. His demeanour grew more and more impressed the more she explained. When she finally finished, he walked forward and placed the Gauntleted hand on her shoulder, looking square into her eyes.

"Sadira, welcome. I think we shall accomplish beautiful things together."

* * *

His touch electrified her, sending tingles throughout her entire body, little sparks shooting from the point of contact. His eyes were astonishingly beautiful up close. She couldn't breathe. Her head spun. It was all so wonderfully disorienting.

He moved back away and the spell was broken. She caught her breath and her vision steadied, but something remained behind, fluttering around in her stomach like a butterfly. _What the hell was this?_ It was like nothing she'd ever felt before.

He was seated on his throne, reclining back in ease.

"You may stay here, in one of the guest rooms, for the duration of our little plot." His voice interrupted her reverie.

"There's no need," she said hastily. "I have a place in the-" His smile was as predatory as a shark's.

"I insist." She decided it would be wiser to accede to him than to fight it.

"My things are still at the other place." He waved a hand.

"Tell one of the servants where it is and what you need. They'll fetch it for you." He paused for a moment longer. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." He inclined his head to her, a quick, short nod, and swept out of the chamber.

A servant was waiting to take her to her room. Another of the black robed men. He- it- was silent the whole time. The whole estate was made entirely of black marble, and lit by torches that burned with a green, oddly unwavering flame. The overall effect was quite intimidating.

The room he'd given her was inexplicably different. It was panelled with a rich, dark wood that she had never seen before. There was a magnificent fireplace with an actual, crackling flame. An intricately detailed carpet was before it. Strangely, countering the opulence of the place, the bed was a mere roll on the floor with a simple white pillow. Fine by her. She'd slept in less before.

Later, while the world slept, Mozenrath paced, awake despite the lateness of the hour. He paused as he walked past the door he knew Sadira to be behind. A battle raged within him. He slowly and softly opened the door just a crack.

The fire in the room burned low, but his heritage allowed him to see in very little light. He clearly saw her. The way her hair spilled across her face. The scar on her cheek. The shape of her lips. The slow rise and fall of her chest as she slept.

He shut the door softly. Troubled, he stalked off into the night.


	2. Chapter Two: The Next Day

**Several Years Ago**

"Sadira! Pay attention!" The raspy voice was followed by a swift whack with the long, wooden staff her mentor carried. Sadira jolted, shrinking back from his blow. His bright eyes were filled with scorn as they peered out from under his bushy white eyebrows. His beard practically quivered in rage.

"I don't know why I bothered with you!" He thundered, looking to the heavens as if for guidance. "Teach them young, they say- They learn better young, they say! You've been on this world for nearly two decades, child, you're hardly even young anymore and you _still can't pay attention!_" He paced around, attempting to calm himself with deep breaths. A younger Sadira cowered in place, fright in her eyes. The man sighed dramatically.

"Where was I?" Sadira gulped and tried to speak; it came out as more of a muffled squeak. "Ah, yes. Magic. What is magic?"

"M-magic is energy," she forced out. "In a non-corporeal form, sir." He nodded.

"And how do you use this energy?" She blinked. She'd never really thought of that before. She had assumed this was where she would learn how. So far, all she'd learned was bones, blood, and a lot of grisly organs.

"With focus, sir?" She ventured, guessing completely.

"No, you ignorant child. If it was that, any peasant on the street would be able to cast spells! No, we magic users possess an extra organ, which I've already showed you." Sadira gagged on the memory. That... Demonstration had come from the dissected remains of a corpse the man had dug up. It had been the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen.

"Every living thing in the world generates magical energy. All this organ does is collect it. It doesn't produce any on its own- your normal body processes produce a small amount of magic only. The energy then exudes out of your body into an invisible net called your aura. Every living thing has an aura, but only magicians have visible auras, and even at that they're only visible when in use or when you're nearby another magician. I have hidden my aura from you for the time being. Auras have specific colors and scents that vary from magician to magician. Magic is an energy like any other. When you run out of it, you'll start to draw from your life-force. If you cast a spell that requires more energy than you currently have, you will die." He continued on about how magic was simply the use of this energy to manipulate the world around them. Somewhere around his half-hour explanation on matter, Sadira raised a hand.

"Excuse me, sir, but... what does all this have to do with healing? Do I really need to know this to use my magic to heal?" He pulled out a dagger and sliced off his pinky finger. Sadira stumbled backwards in fear. He remained calm, picked up his finger, put it back on the bloody stump and spoke a word. In a flash of light, it was back in place. He wiggled it to prove his feat.

"Now, if there are no more stupid questions, we can begin."

* * *

**The Previous Day**

The cat paced the top of the mud-brick wall. Her coppery fur coat gleamed and her unnervingly golden eyes peered out at the world, seeing much and missing none.

Humans like to believe that the world is all visible to them. This was not the case. In reality, there were multiple planes of existence. Humans and most creatures can only see the first one. Some animals, like cats and certain species of rodents, can see up to the third plane. Magical creatures, like djinni, can see and operate on seven. No further planes were visible to them, so they assumed there weren't any. An arrogant supposition.

Despite having the ability to move between the planes, most creatures prefer the first plane. The cat was different. She preferred the third plane, and only rarely came to the first. It had been tens of thousands of years- or maybe only a decade or so- since she'd been there. Time was so hard to keep track of.

Humans. Such mundane beings. Flitting about on their errands and their jobs, stricken with emotions that danced and wavered like a candle in the breeze, and all the while believing that their world was the only world. That nothing else existed. There, the trader on his camel, struggling fiercely to get a good price for his wares. There, the shopkeeper, hardly daring to turn his back for fear of his precious wares being stolen.

There, the woman, hurrying along, worrying about the affections of some man, or- Wait. No. The cat rose and stretched, eyeing the sinking sun. She blinked and her vision dropped a plane. The outlines of the humans became blurred, inconsequential. There were odd things flying above them that hadn't been visible before.

The woman lit up like a lantern. Her aura was immense and blood-red, throbbing with anger and rage and sorrow. It surrounded her, cast her figure into sharp relief. The cat blinked, and it all faded.

_So much that they don't see. How do they live like that?_

Aura or no, the woman wasn't important. The cat was in Agrabah for one purpose.

Admittedly, that hadn't gone so well as yet. She'd been unable to find even a hint of what she was looking for.

_I taught him too well._

She paused to clean one of her paws. She'd forgotten how the sand gets everywhere in her fur. She remembered why she'd hated it here. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a dark shadow ducking behind a building. Its form was vague, like it was just a bit of smoke. Probably nothing, but… The cat yawned and checked the second plane. Still blurry.

Rapidly, she cycled through all seven. Whatever it was, it couldn't be seen clearly on any of the planes. The cat frowned. This almost indicated a power greater than hers. But that simply couldn't be.

The figure was following the woman.

_Well, he can wait,_ She decided, thinking of the man she'd come to see. _This is a more pressing matter._ With a cough and a blink, the cat vanished, leaving behind nothing but footprints and a hairball.

* * *

**Present Day**

Mozenrath had wasted no time in setting the plan in motion. After Sadira had left the throne room, he'd immediately summoned his mercenaries and given them some very specific instructions.

Mozenrath was the Emperor of the Black Sands. At his disposal was a veritable army of hardened, cruel and often psychotically-inclined warriors. He did occasionally use them, but generally he preferred to rely on his own resources. To that end, he'd invested a lot of time into making servants and other such lackeys.

There were a number of ways to go about it. You could animate a form and endow it with intelligence, you could capture a live human being and burn out their mind, replacing it with obedience, or you could summon a demon and force it to do your bidding. All of them had been thoroughly researched and utilized.

He separated his forces into two categories. One for fighting, one for operations. The fighting end was comprised of magically animated automatons. Nearly invincible, but dumb as a rock. He used them mostly as bruisers and as imposing-looking guards. The operations end was much more detailed.

He'd built several frames from wood and metal and experimented for many hours on endowing them with some degree of intelligence. All his efforts met with failure. Magic, it seemed, could not create life where there was none. Frustrated, he'd abandoned the project for some time until he happened to hear of a Greek scientist who called himself Mechanikles. The man's work with automatons was legendary.

Mozenrath had immediately had him abducted and spirited away into his dungeons, where he beat the information out of the mad scientist. Mechanikles had a brilliant mind but a poor resistance to a hot poker. His designs were inspired, but still lacked that controlling intelligence. He improved upon them, taking the concepts of the insectoid machines and applying them to a graceful, human sized figure.

The final factor had originated from his mother. Long ago, she'd told him how the world worked- how there was the visible and the invisible, and that one could make the visible invisible with enough effort. That was when he began to summon demons. Small ones at first- Imps and Foliots, the first and second ranks, respectively. They were powerful in their own ways but too small and malicious to make good servants. Djinni were out of the question. Your average djinni possessed the cunning of a snake and enough power to back it up. He had no doubt they would find some way to stab him in the back.

The only option left was an Ifrit.

They were only mentioned in legends. Enormous winged creatures of fire with flaming hooves- ifrits were things of myth and were not to be trifled with.

Mozenrath had summoned one and bound it to himself after hours of pitched battle, at great cost to himself. The Gauntlet was a hugely powerful artifact, but it exacted a terrible toll. He then transplanted the demon into the best of his automaton structures. The result was incredible.

The first known binding of its kind, Ragül had a body of steel, a brilliant mind, and best of all, an unquestioning loyalty to Mozenrath. He was fast and invincible.

His next obstacle had been finding something to gather information for him. He used a network of informants hidden deep among the people, but it wasn't enough. Mechanikles, ironically, had provided the solution in small, metal scorpion automatons. They were the perfect spies and required very little magic to operate.

From Ragül he had built more frames and simply left it to the demon to fill them. He had. Mozenrath didn't question how.

All of these resources were being deployed. His spies ranged far and wide- the public squares, the palace, Amin Damoola's camp, every single place where someone could say something, anything, of importance. His automatons were preparing to move out as needed. The very ground noticed the great shift of effort.

But all was silent in the night.

* * *

Morning came and Sadira awoke to find a beautifully written note on the outside of her door. It rather politely invited her to breakfast and informed her that a servant was waiting to escort her there.

Sadira felt butterflies in her stomach at the thought. She actually thought carefully about what to entire wardrobe, weapons included, had magically appeared overnight, despite her not giving any servants the location of her abode. Would she be expected to dress modestly? Maybe he expected something else of her?

She shook her head. _What am I doing? Screw him._ She dressed in her nighttime vigilante outfit and added a cloak, but left the hood. She strapped her katars into the customary slots on her back. _Perfect._ She left the room and found the servant awaiting her. He- it? Silently led her to a large, beautiful anteroom featuring a large obsidian table on which a most splendid breakfast spread was laid out. Mozenrath himself was nowhere to be seen. She almost felt disappointed.

She ate her fill and sat for a moment, confused as what to do now. There were no more notes, no more servants waiting to take her somewhere. What did she do now? After debating for a while, she decided to explore the building.

The whole place was filled with a variety of fascinating objects. There were glass cases full of magical, ancient artifacts, bookshelves lined with tomes just waiting to be read and have their secrets uncovered, and mounds upon mounds of rich, exotic carpets from lands she didn't even recognize. Eventually she happened upon a flight of stairs that descended down quite a ways. Following them took her to a narrow corridor with windows that looked down into a space below.

The corridor was actually a bridge built over a large, round space. It was walled with a strange brownish brick and floored entirely in sand. All around the edge, dummies crudely shaped in the form of men lined the wall, various arrows and weapons sticking out of them. Her gaze flickered around the room and alighted on her host. He was standing in the arena, naked above the waist except for his Gauntlet. Before, that glove had seemed like any other, but now she could sense it positively thrummed with magical power- and not the nice kind.

Mozenrath breathed deeply and brought his hands together, sending a booming clap echoing around the room. It faded into silence- and the dummies began to _move._ Their joints creaked and rustled as they seized the handles of the weapons impaled in them and drew them out, holding them in a fighting stance and approaching the Dark Ruler. He surveyed them with his golden eyes. Was it just her, or did they flicker up to look at her for the merest instant? Her thoughts were swept away as he leapt into action.

Mozenrath wasn't strong. He wasn't weak, either, but he didn't have clearly toned muscles. Sadira glanced down at her arms and blushed. She looked back in time to see Mozenrath gather himself and leap into the air, somersaulting over one of the attacking dummies and driving his Gauntlet into its chest, tearing out the stuffing where the heart would be. He spun to avoid an axe chop, thrusting his arm forward and unleashing a magical blast into another dummy. He raised his arm, using the Gauntlet to block a sword without looking, and grabbed the hilt with his other hand. He rolled forward, using the momentum to drive the blade into an attacker and kicked out, hitting the dummy to reclaim his sword.

The rest of the dummies went down in a whirlwind of blades and magic. Every magic user had a different style of magic that often depended upon their path of study, but also was affected by personality and nature. Mozenrath's magic was black as midnight under a rock and brutally powerful. He used it to carve great chunks out of his foes and to send them flying backwards. Once he imploded one's head with the wave of his hand.

Sadira loved watching him fight. His magic felt like a storm in the area- the pressure built up and the hairs on her body stood at attention. She gathered her hair and quickly braided it so it wouldn't frizz up. Finally, he was done. He stood in a circle of destroyed dummies, panting hard from the exertion. She watched as he rolled his shoulders, the muscles rolling under his pale skin. He snapped his fingers and it all vanished in a whirlwind of sand. It settled down and died, leaving the room empty with the dummies back against the walls. Mozenrath was gone. She looked around, confused. _Now where's he gone?_

"Enjoy?" She whirled around to find the Dark Ruler himself leaning against the opposite wall, languidly watching her. She was very, _very_ aware of his close proximity. And his shirtlessness. She stood up straight and bowed to him in respect.

"Your performance was mildly competent." She had to stifle a laugh at the look on his face.

"Mildly competent?" He repeated incredulously. She just nodded. His eyes narrowed. "Well, then, Sadira, you get in the arena. Let's see how you do." She smirked.

"My pleasure." She descended another set of stairs and emerged into the arena. She ground her foot into the floor. At least a solid foot of sand. Perfect. She reviewed her inventory in her head. Mozenrath's magic was more powerful, but hers was a bit more subtle. _Let's see what he thinks of this._ She heard his clap echo off the walls of the room and saw the dummies begin to move. She smirked.

She let out a battle cry and drove her fist into the floor, dissolving into sand.

* * *

Mozenrath stood in the observation area, his arms folded. Xerxes had appeared and hovered by his shoulder. He fell into an old habit of addressing his familiar.

"Dare to call MY fighting 'mildly competent?'" He sneered. "We'll just see about that." He leaned over the edge, peering down into the arena just in time to see Sadira explode into sand. The dummies stopped, momentarily confused with no target to go after. Seconds stretched into minutes. Where was she?

The battle cry exploded from her lips as the Sand Witch rose behind a dummy, a blade appearing through its chest. She jerked the blade out, leaving a long and horrid gash through its skin. She dissolved into sand again, all the individual grains falling into the earth. She repeated the trick again and again, until she was barely even visible in a whirl of sand. She would rise up, strike quickly and disappear again in the blink of an eye. She had no pattern. Sometimes she would even strike in the same place twice. Any human being would have been hopelessly confused- the dummies didn't stand a chance. Within seconds they were all destroyed and she stood in a circle of broken pieces. She directed a cocky smirk at Mozenrath.

He merely smiled and clapped twice. The dummies sank into the sand and everything was quiet.

Then came a colossal roar and a colossal fist made of rock punched through the surface, sending out a mini-shockwave that threw Sadira on her back. The fist was followed by one of the most amazing sights she'd ever seen- a golem made of solid rock. The magical energy coursing through the thing was positively enormous.

She dissolved into sand, reforming behind the creature and thinking this through. The golem was made of rock. Her blades were sharp, but not that sharp. She tossed them away and dived to the side as the golem's fist slammed down where she'd been. Damn, the thing was fast. She studied it carefully. Rocks, animated by magic. That much was obvious. It had clearly recognizable arms and legs, as well as fully formed hands and some lump of stuff that vaguely resembled feet. The limbs could bend at a joint like an elbow, and the legs had a knee-like structure.

She rolled backwards, springing to her feet as she dodged another strike. She made a split second decision and jumped onto its fist, sprinting up its rocky arm until she was looking at the joint. She thrust both of her arms out, conjuring sand and blasting it into the rock.

Sand is made up of a lot of tiny particles of rock and other things. Some of the things are the same stuff that glass is made from. Alone, sand is harmless. However, when channeled at high speed by winds or another force, each little, sharp particle turns into a weapon. The deserts were full of examples- cliff faces blasted smooth by the sands, rocks carved into odd formations. Sandstorms had been known to destroy buildings.

It was this force that Sadira harnessed. Billions of particles of sand moving at a ridiculously high speed hit the rock and bounced off, taking bits of the rock with them. The golem shook its arm and Sadira leapt off, landing on its shoulder and blasting down. It roared and moved to crush her. Sadira turned into sand and the golem hit itself with the arm she'd just weakened. The stone cracked and broke. The golem was one arm short.

Sadira struggled to reform. Magic was an energy like any other, and as such she had a limited amount of it. Turning into sand and back was a parlor trick, but actually conjuring the sand out of thin air was stretching her reserves. There was a significant danger that if Sadira wasn't careful with her energy, she could dissolve into sand and never re-form.

She gathered her strength once more and sprinted at the golem. It swung a massive arm at her and she slid under it, pressing herself to the ground and coming up by its leg. She sand-blasted the knee joint until the golem raised its leg and stomped down, missing her by an inch and snapping its leg clean off. She cartwheeled away and watched the thing.

It fell heavily to the ground, roaring mightily. Suddenly, it launched itself towards her, grinding its remaining arm and leg into the ground and leaping through the air. Sadira quickly dissolved and began to re-form behind it. She got halfway back and looked up. The golem's fist was right above her. It had tricked her.

All this and killed by a rock.

She closed her eyes and waited for death.


	3. Chapter Three: Walk the Walk

**About a year ago**

The sea roared. The day was clear, but the waves were high and fast. Spray from the water filled the air, bringing a tang of salt with it. Sailors bustled about, hauling on ropes and tying off ends, the whole while singing with deep, clear voices.

_What shall we do with a drunken sailor,_

_What shall we do with a drunken sailor,_

_What shall we do with a drunken sailor,_

_Ear-ly in the morning?_

Sadira loved it. The way the ship bucked as it crashed through the swells, the feel of the deck timbers under her feet, the strong and melodious sound of the shanty. She stood atop the crow's nest and breathed in deeply, surveying the blue expanse of water before her.

_Way-hay, up she rises, _

_Way-hay, up she rises,_

_Way-hay, up she rises,_

_Ear-ly in the morning!_

Sadira grabbed ahold of a nearby rope and swung out over the void, feeling the wind rush through her loose hair. She let out a joyous cry as she flew through the air, landing in an acrobatic roll on the deck. One of the sailors, the Quartermaster, tipped his hat to her.

"Good morning, Lady Sadira," he said, the accent he spoke with betraying the countless years at sea. "Still tempting fate, I see." Sadira strode to the railing and leaned over it, feeling the sea spray on her face.

"Fate has no hold over me." She replied confidently. The Quartermaster chuckled.

_Put him in a longboat 'till he's sober,_

_Put him in a longboat 'till he's sober,_

_Put him in a longboat 'till he's sober,_

_Ear-ly in the morning!_

"So thinks everyone, at one time or another." Minutes passed in silence. He checked the sun's position in the sky. "Must be about noon," he remarked. "I'd say we've passed the meridian by now. Congratulations, lass. You've earned your first swallow." Sadira looked at him questioningly.

"A swallow?" She asked dubiously. The Quartermaster pulled his shirt open, revealing two swallow tattoos in the hollow of his right shoulder.

"A sailor's tattoos tell his story. When you've sailed five thousand miles, you earn the right to a swallow to show it. I've got five." He buttoned his shirt back up. "Next port of call, find yourself a tattoo man and get one." He walked along and began to shout orders at the men.

_Way-hay, up she rises!_

_Way-hay, up she rises!_

_Way-hay, up she rises!_

_Ear-ly in the morning!_

The song ended as the men scattered to begin pulling in the mainsails. Sadira pulled open her own tunic and looked at the bare skin of her shoulder. She imagined a swallow, black as ink, taking refuge there. She quite liked the idea. She touched the spot she imagined it in with her finger.

"A swallow." She said to herself. "A symbol of always being able to find your way." She pondered this for a moment. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"A rune." She whirled away from the railing and climbed into the riggings, throwing herself into the work.

The men on the ship knew better than to mess with her, but the ruffians at the port had no such knowledge. All they'd seen was the pretty woman disembarking from the large boat, alone and supposedly unarmed. They didn't see the swallow tattoo on her shoulder. They didn't see the dragon that coiled its way down her arm, stopping about mid-forearm. It wouldn't have mattered if they had. They were stupid.

Sadira strolled along, unaware of the danger. In foreign lands, people tended to stay away from her because of the way she walked as well as her tattoos that clearly spoke of a hard life at sea. She'd gotten used to being shunned in the six months she'd been travelling. She figured Shanghai would be no different.

She found herself in a dead end alleyway. Confused, she turned around, only to see two burly Asian men, heavily inked with strange symbols, blocking her way. She didn't like the grins on their faces, or the lust in their eyes.

"Excuse me, sirs," She said as calmly as she could. "If I could just get past-" They advanced, arms out to grab her. Sadira sighed.

"Apparently not." She turned around and bolted towards the dead end. Her sprint carried her up the wall; a kick and a flip landed her behind the thugs. She pulled two knives out of her boots and drove them into their necks, just where the skull met the spine. They were dead before they hit the ground. She wiped her hands in satisfaction.

"Figures," a wizened old voice griped. "I teach you to heal and I find you killing. Ungrateful child." Sadira spun, fear exploding in her mind at the voice. She straightened up.

"Master!" It was a deeply ingrained reflex. The old man had demanded nothing less than total obedience. There he was, seemingly no older than when she'd last seen him.

Of course, he'd looked like he was pushing two thousand then too. He still carried that stick. To her, the stick was more than a staff. It was an extension of the man. He was never seen without it and he didn't hesitate to to lay into whatever got in his way with it. She shuddered. He hadn't hesitated to lay into her with the stick.

He squinted at the bodies, then at her. His gaze was piercing. He took in her build, her clothes and her tattoos all at once. Sadira felt strangely nervous.

"These gentlemen and I were simply having a disagreement, and it got a little out of ha-"

"Save your breath. As it happens, I was on my way myself to deal with them." He spat on their corpses. "Good riddance."

"What are you doing here?" She asked, suddenly curious. As far as she knew the old man had never left the city, never mind the country. His reply was blunt.

"None of your business." That was a side of him she was used to. "I see you've acquired a tracker rune. Quite useful for a bounty hunter."

"I'm not a bounty hun-" The full import of his words struck her. She struggled to speak for a minute. "How did you- how did you know?" He gestured at the bodies.

"I recognize my work, Sadira. Nobody can murder with the precision you do without an intimate knowledge of how the body works. You're not hard to track, Sand-stalker." He laughed, a short, hoarse bark, at her expression. "What, never heard that? It's what the people are calling you now. The Sand-stalker, the invisible killer. You've got quite the reputation."

"I- You- I'm not a bounty hunter! I don't get money for what I do!" She said hotly, flushing with rising anger. He snorted.

"Then you're a foolish bounty hunter." She fumed silently for a moment before he jerked his arm.

"Come along. I don't have all day." He shuffled off without looking back. Sadira hesitated a moment, then followed.

There was no denying the old man.

* * *

**Present Day**

_Step one. Eliminate the competition. Lure Aladdin and the Palace into a false sense of security._

Her words echoed through Mozenrath's head as he paced ceaselessly. A week had passed since the fight with his golem, a pet project that only now revealed itself as a mistake. The golem had been powerful beyond belief, but also out of his control. It had almost killed Sadira and that had made him angry.

As to why, he was less than certain. She was his guest, and merited his protection. It would have been impolite to let her come to any harm.

But that didn't explain the depth of his anger. It didn't explain the way he hadn't even thought about it, the way he had simply leapt into the fray with the golem just because it was her lying in the sand and not anyone else.

It didn't explain the faint tendrils of fear that had crept around the edge of his consciousness.

Fear was an alien emotion to Mozenrath. He knew it, of course; he used it as a tool, a weapon. He'd even felt it long ago, when he was first apprenticed to Destane. That man had been a psychopath unlike any other- an utterly unfeeling, admittedly evil bastard. He was also the closest thing Mozenrath had to a father.

Fear had been a daily occurrence with Destane. He wouldn't kill Mozenrath- his mother had made sure of that- but several times he'd beaten him within an inch of his life. Nine-year old Mozenrath had begun to crack under the constant, choking pressure of fear.

So he'd adapted. He grew cold and detached, learning to combat Destane with a calculating acceptance and a sharp wit. Whatever Destane asked, he did. It started with simple tasks. Fetch that tome, read this scroll. All too quickly, it became things like torture information out of this concubine and enslave that demon. From the time he was ten Mozenrath had learned to maim, torture, and kill. He found pleasure in it, provided the subject deserved it. Others called it sadism. He thought of it as justice.

Mozenrath conformed, molded to survive. He became detached from all emotions except anger, rage and hatred. These he learned to use.

And since that day so long ago, Mozenrath had never felt fear.

What was it about Sadira that brought up these feelings in him? He banished those thoughts and turned to the matter at hand. The spies had returned that very day. He knew what everyone of note was up to at any time. The time for planning was past. It was time to act.

Who was first? He scrutinized the list of targets. Abis Mal- definitely. He had no patience for petty criminals, and a toadie of that second-rate buffoon Jafar at that. Yes, Agrabah would be better off without him.

He turned away from the planning board and stepped into the large, open space that was his workroom. Tables occupied the space, littered with alchemical apparatus as well as several partially-assembled mechanical frames. Careful stacks of notes lay on the tables, carefully sorted for each project. Everything was neat and clean and organized- just the way he liked it.

The center of the room was occupied by a large, round metallic frame. Wires and solid iron chains trailed off of it, disappearing into the depths of the workroom. Standing in the frame loomed an ominous figure.

"Ragül!" He called when he stood nearby. The was a great rush of air, following by a soft humming. The figure's eyes- if they could be called that- opened, revealing solid red.

The Ifrit was awake.

Gears whirred and metal creaked as it stepped off of its platform. The body was exactly six feet in height, of slim build and having all the appearance of a normal, mundane human- a foolish assumption that had claimed more than one victim. Ragül carried the strength of a dozen men and enough intelligence to put them all to shame. He couldn't hold a candle to Mozenrath, of course, but he was no slouch.

"Master." The demon's voice was deep and dark. His red eyes blinked once. They weren't really eyes, simply magical sensors that allowed the body a huge range of vision, but Ragül had his quirks and Mozenrath chose not to question them. "Is she with you?" Mozenrath's head snapped around, following the Ifrit's pointed gaze. Sadira was crouched in the shadows, clad in the same clothes she'd fought the golem in, her weapons at her back. His heart gave a little jump at seeing her, which made him even more cross. He sighed irritably.

"What the hell are you doing here? I _locked _that door." She stepped forward, looking annoyingly smug.

"It was only a six-tumbler lock. It wasn't that hard."

"There was a dead bolt." She winked and wiggled her fingers.

"Trade secret, Mozzie." He stared at her, then looked at Ragül. The demon showed no sign that he'd heard. But he had, damn him. He returned to glowering at Sadira.

"You have a reason for invading my personal spaces, I trust?" Translation: You'd better have a damned good explanation. She met his stare calmly.

"It's time to act."

"I was in the process of doing so when you interrupted me."

"Oh. Well. Please continue." He turned around.

"Ragül and I are leaving to strike the first target."

"Abis Mal?"

"Yes." He wondered how she'd figured it. Maybe she was smarter than he'd figured. He stepped over to another table and shrugged a cuirass over his shoulders. It was forged of the strongest steel and overlaid with silver. His arms went unprotected, but another gauntlet covered his right hand. It more or less matched the Gauntlet. He grabbed his weapon belt off of a wall and buckled it about his waist, cinching it tightly. Finally, he removed his staff from its special perch. The crystal set into its top glowed an ominous purple. He was ready.

The staff was an old favorite of his. Every serious magic user needed a staff. Aside from being an extremely effective melee weapon, a staff served to focus and amplify magical powers. He'd fortified its length with a multitude of spells, and the crystal mounted in it was powerful in its own right. That little trinket had cost him dearly.

"Is this an Ifrit?" Sadira's voice invaded his battle-ready mind. Ah, yes, her. She was examining Ragül. "There's obviously some sort of demon bound to it and from the looks of it-"

"You would be wise to stay away from me, Lady Sadira. I cannot harm Master Mozenrath but I am under no such obligation with you." The demon seemed to smolder slightly. She took a step back.

"It speaks!"

"And kills," the demon interjected smoothly.

Mozenrath interrupted before things could get out of hand.

"Ragül, get a dozen automatons and meet me out front. Now," He added as the demon hesitated. It gave Sadira one last look, then inclined its head and walked with astonishing grace out of the room. Mozenrath rubbed his temples. "You know, it really doesn't help when you taunt him."

"I wasn't taunting him."

"Oh, so you must be naturally irritating. I apologize."

"Speak for yourself, pretty boy." Mozenrath visibly stiffened. His tone turned from dry sarcasm to quiet rage. She likened it to the small yet white-hot flames at the center of a fire.

"_What _did you just call me?" His anger was terrifying. His staff flared and the air grew thick. The blood drained from Sadira's face. He seemed to grow in size, looming over her, a black threatening spectre.

Fortunately, Ragül chose that moment to come back.

"We are ready, Master Mozenrath." He disappeared as silently as he had come. Mozenrath seemed to shrink back to normal size. He gathered himself and swept out of the room without a backwards glance. His left hand was clenched in a fist.

Sadira let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. _In all my years, I've never come closer to death than I did just now. _

Mozenrath was definitely the most dangerous person she'd ever met.

And yet, she acted differently around him. She felt differently. She sank against the wall, closing her eyes and hugging her knees.

_Ah, damn. What have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

Abis Mal was a short man.

He was small and fat and extremely touchy about it. He'd once killed a man who had dared to call him "pudgy." Vicious and exceedingly temperamental, Mal had quickly risen through the ranks of the bandit clans after he'd gouged out his main rival's eye with a spoon over dinner. Rumor has it that he then ate the eyeball with his meal.

He lounged around, sitting in the shade with two lackeys fanning him. It was a slow day today, and the desert sun was hot.

"Fan harder!" He snapped at one. "It's too damned hot out." The lackeys rolled their eyes and shared a knowing glance at how ridiculous their boss was, but fanned harder. A voice drifted up from the edge of the camp.

"Boss! There's a sandstorm coming!"

"Bah!" Mal spat. "Idiot! There's no wind in this accursed desert. How could there possibly be a sandstorm?"

"Look, Boss!" He sighed and looked, already reaching for his dagger to stab the insolent fool. He gasped and rubbed his eyes. It couldn't be- but it was.

A large cloud of dust was rapidly approaching.

"That's not a storm!" Mal's voice hit a screeching pitch. "Someone's coming!" He scrambled for a horn and blew a long blast on it. The bandits emerged from their various hiding places and picked up a hodgepodge collection of rusty old weapons. They'd barely gotten up before the dust cloud caught up with them. Slowly, it dispersed to reveal a scant dozen black-clad figures. Abis Mal forgot about the fact that he'd soiled his pants in fright and burst into laughter.

"Look at that, boys! They sent us a bit of entertainment!" Hearty laughs echoed up and down the camp. The lead figure stepped forward. His voice drifted across the sands.

"Abis Mal. Prepare yourself for death."

"Oh, yeah? Says who?"

There was a flash of light and a man appeared beside the lead figure. This one was clad only in upper-body armor and gauntlets. His head was bare of any helmet and his dark hair flowed freely. His golden eyes flashed in the sun, and the purple crystal set in his staff pulsed brightly.

At this point, Mal broke completely.

"Mozenrath!" He screamed, beating a hasty retreat. "Kill him!" He yelled at his men. They roared and charged him. Mozenrath smiled, a small, cruel smile.

His staff flashed and three bandits exploded into a bloody mist, shredded by the concussive blast he'd sent at them. The figures he had with him smoothly flew into action as well. Ragül leapt into the air, landing in a crowd of bandits. He drew his sword and swiftly killed six of them. The Ifrit's strikes were methodical and efficient. Then bloodlust set in.

Ragül threw his sword by the hilt, embedding it in the chest of a bandit. He reached into a cavity in his frame and withdrew two short axes with wickedly serrated blades. He roared, an unearthly sound that sent the bandits running. He moved among them with superhuman speed, hacking the men into pieces. Blood and gore flew everywhere.

Mozenrath strode among the tents, blasting fireballs every so often. Tendrils of black smoke reached into the blue sky. A bandit charged him, swinging his sword overhead. Mozenrath blocked it with his staff, kicking the man in the chest and leveling his staff at him. He spoke a word and blew the man's head off. Another sword, from his left. He blocked the blade with his Gauntlet and closed his fist around the attacker's neck. The Gauntlet shuddered and pulsed with a ghostly blue light. Mozenrath flicked his wrist and separated his head from his neck. He laughed and flung the head, knocking down another bandit. Mozenrath split him open with a word and a swipe of his arm.

Mal himself was hiding behind a boulder. Mozenrath gestured and the boulder shattered. Mal shrieked. The sharp, acrid smell of urine wafted up from him. Disgusting.

"Mozenrath!" The small man wailed. "I've not done anything you haven't!" Mozenrath laughed and kicked him.

"How would you like to die, Abis Mal? I could blow apart your skull. I could slice you open, bit by bit and see what color your insides are."

"What do you want? I'll give you anything!"

"I could slowly inflate your body with air until you burst like a used wine sack."

"No! Please! Don't do it! Is it gold? I can get you gold! Or wine! Or anything!"

"I could just crack open your little fat head with my bare hands." Mozenrath reached down, his hand closing around Mal's throat. "I could rip out your throat right now." He smiled as the little man began to cry.

Ragül materialized at his side, miraculously clean and free of blood. His sword was at his side and his axes were safely stowed away.

"All targets eliminated. We took three of them alive for your enjoyment." Mozenrath nodded and spat on Mal's quivering form.

"Pathetic. Get this creature out of my sight. Take him to the Hole." Ragül nodded and hefted the fat bandit, carrying him easily over one shoulder.

Mozenrath took a look behind him. Corpses littered the ground. Tents still burned. In places, the sand was red with blood. Smoke choked the sky.

He looked at what he had wrought, and thought it very good.

* * *

Mozenrath returned to his abode triumphant. Agrabah- soon to be his Agrabah- was one bandit clan less and he had four very, very bad men to subject to his justice. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Life was good.

His workshop was located under the main building. This would serve to protect it in case anyone ever attacked the place, and gave it a coolness that he rather liked. It was his lair, and from it he would unleash death upon all who stood in his way.

The heavy iron door swung shut behind him and he stood gaping. Sadira, irritatingly, was still there- sitting cross-legged on a table in the middle of the room with his carefully sorted and stacked pages of notes scattered haphazardly about her. She sat in front of one of his alembics, carefully measuring out a quantity of a very rare herb. She glanced up, saw him, and gave a friendly wave. Mozenrath just stared.

"Hey, Moze!" She said cheerily. "This is a really nice setup you've got down here, and some of your projects are just fascinating."

"You- What-" Mozenrath spluttered, looking at the chaos the space had become. "I was brewing a potion in that alembic!" She shrugged.

"Didn't look too important."

"_Didn't look important?!" _He clawed at the air. "And my notes! What have you done with my notes?!" He started to gather up the sheaves of paper, carefully sorting through them. "Now look what you've done, they're all mixed up." He huffed to himself.

"So, anyways, I've picked the next target." Mozenrath didn't react. She took his silence as an invitation to go ahead. "Amin Damoola."

"Damoola?" He glanced up. "The butterfinger thief? Universally acclaimed to be the most useless crook in all of Arabia?" She nodded.

"He lacks talent, but makes up for it in ambition. Killing him will send a clear message."

"Isn't he locked up under the Palace right now?" Another nod.

"In maximum security, which will also send a clear message." Mozenrath considered this. She was ambitious, surely, and a lot more clever than he'd thought, but surely this was beyond her ken.

"Impossible. We'd have to invade the Palace, which would draw the Sultan's army down on us, which, at this stage, I'm not prepared for."

"So we don't invade."

"What? You want me to kill him from here? Maybe build a bridge across the sea while I'm at it? Oh, you think _you _can get in and kill him without being caught. Well, be my guest, but don't be surprised if it takes me a while to find your jail cell." Sadira sighed.

"I noticed a weapon rack over there. Can you smith?" Mozenrath looked at her for a moment with a _duh_ expression on his face.

"There isn't a man in Arabia who can compete with me." True, so far as he knew. It'd been a while, though.

"Good. Make these." She handed him a couple of pages, a detailed diagram of some form of gloves. Mostly leather, which wasn't a problem, but overlaid with a steel framework and equipped with wicked looking claws. Tricky, but doable.

"I'll humor you this time. Now get out. I'll be done in a couple of hours." She nodded and left the room.

_Mozenrath thinks he's all that because he's got strength, _She thought. _But I'm like the desert. Silent and deadly._

* * *

True to his word, it took Mozenrath less than four hours to complete the gloves, with unparalleled craftsmanship. He'd seen her off with a wave of his hand and a "Don't ever touch my stuff again" warning. She noticed the small spy that had attached itself to her vigilante outfit- a small metal scorpion, probably ran by magic- but she didn't care. He was welcome to watch.

Oil was expensive, so the lights in the city generally went out quickly. The only place that could afford to leave lights burning all night was the Palace. Useful on one hand, since the guards could see all around the Palace, but also fatally compromised their night vision. A fact she intended to take full advantage of.

One of the tricks she'd worked out was a form of camouflage. She would dissolve into sand, allow her grains to trickle down, then re-form under the sand- giving her about a half-inch covering of sand to hide under. A guard's foot landed less than an inch away from her head. He saw nothing.

She exploded from the sand noiselessly, running behind the guard and leaping at the wall. The claws in her gloves caught in a gap in the stonework, and she hauled herself up and over the wall, landing in a pocket of shadows inside the perimeter. She crouched, perfectly still, and listened. No sign of alarm. So far, so good.

The next part would not be so easy. Now she would have to cross the bare and well-lit portion just before the building itself. _Turn into sand?_ No, wouldn't work- There wasn't enough sand here to mask her approach. _Take out the guard?_ And likely alert the rest once they found the body- no.

_Screw it and run?_

Screw it and run.

The three and a half seconds she took to cross the space and duck into the shadows seemed like an eternity. Had anyone noticed?

"Over there! I saw something!"

_Shit. _She heard footsteps coming from both sides. She spent a moment panicking, then leaped up and scrabbled at the wall for purchase. After a terrifying second one of her claws caught and she quickly hauled herself up and climbed higher. She was still hanging off of the wall when the guards reached the spot where she had been. She froze, looking down and praying they wouldn't look up.

It's a curious thing about humans. They look from side to side, investigate every nook and cranny- but they never look up. After a minute of careful searching and good-natured ribbing of the guard that had seen her, they all wandered off. Except one, who, determined that he'd seen something, planted his feet firmly in the ground.

_Damn it all. _She'd been hoping to get out the way she came in. His blocking of her exit was just more pressure on her. She climbed higher and swung in through a window, landing in a low crouch and sweeping the dark hallway. Nothing.

The plush carpets served to mask her footsteps as she sought her way to the lowest level of the Palace. There was a guard on duty before the door down to the dungeons. Ah, now this could be a problem. Sadira nipped behind a tapestry to plan her attack.

"Princess Jasmine!" Sadira lifted one side of the tapestry slightly to peek out. Jasmine herself, that royal pain, was on the opposite side of the room. The guard had moved towards her a bit.

"Hello, Sergeant. I trust everything is in order down here?" He nodded amiably.

"Yes ma'am. All prisoners accounted for, and nothing on the perimeter. Looks like a quiet night."

"Good. How's your family?

"Doing very well, ma'am. My boy's almost two, now. Thanks for asking."

"Not at all, not at all. Carry o-" Jasmine froze as she saw a shadow flit behind the guard. He saw her gaze and turned, sharply surveying the room. The door was tightly shut. Nothing was disturbed.

"What is it, Princess?" He asked cautiously. Jasmine rubbed her eyes and waved a hand.

"Nothing, nothing. Just my eyes playing tricks on me, telling me it's time to get some sleep. Goodnight, Sergeant."

"Goodnight, Princess Jasmine." Sadira, pressed up against the other side of the door, breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of fading footsteps. Getting out might be a bit trickier than getting in, but she was almost to her goal now.

There was a guard in the jail itself- fast asleep, the keys on their peg in the wall. Sadira almost laughed. Thank the gods for incompetence. She bypassed the keys entirely and found the cell Damoola was in. Swish, click, turn; the lockpick was put away in the blink of an eye. She only opened the cell door a crack and slipped inside.

Damoola was a light sleeper. He jolted awake and sat up, clutching the thin blankets around him.

"Who's there?" He called out fearfully. The door was shut. His tiny cell was empty. He peered around for a moment, then allowed himself to relax. He happened to glance up.

Sadira fell from the ceiling, drawing a katar in the blink of an eye and slicing Damoola's throat open. He gurgled and died as her blade found its mark. Sadira grunted and felt a momentary twinge of guilt. Some things just had to be done.

She arranged the body so it looked like Damoola was sleeping, doing her best to disguise the blood. She gathered herself and sprinted at the cell door, turning to sand at the last moment and re-forming on the other side of the bars. She took a moment to gather herself and walked up the stairs.

Now, the tricky part. She opened the door slightly. The guard was still standing there. _What to do, what to- Ah. That might work. _She gathered herself, did her best to put an imperious look on her face, and threw open the door. The guard whirled around instantly, sword at the ready. She stared at him, challenging him. Surprise registered on his face.

"Oh, it's you." When she'd given up going after Aladdin, she'd even managed to be friends with Jasmine for a while. The guards knew her. "I wasn't informed you had returned." The sword returned to its scabbard but his hand remained on the hilt. They knew her, but didn't trust her.

"I have. I'm on very important business for the Princess. _Private _business," she added, putting emphasis on _private._ The guard nodded.

"I know my place, witch." She walked off, climbing the stairs and fighting to keep from running. Finally he was out of sight and she relaxed. She'd taken a risk in potentially revealing her presence, but it was better than a body. She was reasonably certain that the guard wouldn't talk. _And if he does, I could always have Mozenrath buy his silence. _She paused at the thought. _Asking favors of him now, Sadira? What's gotten into you? _She shook off the stray thoughts and climbed higher in the Palace, until she found herself on a tower. The breeze was slight but brisk, bringing more cold to the rapidly chilling night. She leaned over the edge, wondering how to get back down.

She had an idea.

A dumb idea, but… Her only option. She drew her hood up, fixing it into place. She cursed that she hadn't brought the cape. Only a month or so ago she'd considered trying to fly with it. This would've been a wonderful test.

The edge was firm and unyielding as she stepped onto it. The wind pushed at her, threatening to send her toppling off. The ground seemed very far away now. A touch of vertigo struck. Sadira took a deep breath and leaped off the tower.

The wind tore at her body. The ground rushed up at her impossibly fast. She tucked in her limbs, trying to make a more streamlined shape. The trick was to momentarily turn to sand at just the right moment. Too soon, and she'd be so spread out she'd never re-form. Too late, and… She didn't think about what would happen.

_Now! _She turned to sand and back in less than a second, slowing down considerably as the sand puffed out like a cloud. She'd misjudged it slightly, though, and found herself in a twelve-foot drop.

_Whump. _Sand billowed out as she landed hard. Muffled swearing broke out, heating the chilly air with invectives. She pushed herself to her feet and winced. She'd feel that in the morning. She staggered to her feet and attempted to run, found she couldn't, and settled for a steady lope. Finally, she found her way back to Mozenrath's place and collapsed on her bedroll. She was exhausted, bruised, and very possibly had announced her presence to the royal family, but the job was done.

_I wonder if Mozenrath will be impressed. _Her thoughts wandered as she felt sleep tug at her. She wasted another moment wondering why she cared.

_Probably not. _She sank into sleep's warm embrace.

* * *

**Greetings, readers!**

**Alright, so, just wanted to touch on something.**

**I don't follow canon very well. There are a lot of things I've added in or changed. Send me all your questions and I'll do my best to answer them. Eventually, a reading companion to the story should be along, with all of my policies and things laid out.**

**Now, as to why I don't follow canon- Disney is terrible at canon. I'm sorry, they just are. Genie in particular made references to things that shouldn't by any means be known about at that time or era, and I've been told Mozenrath's Gauntlet is supposed to be leather. That last one in particular I'm completely ignoring. Seriously, who makes a gauntlet out of leather? And then goes on to enchant it with massive power? **

**So, basically, screw Disney canon, I'm forging my own. **

**Questions? Comments? Concerns? Private messages can answer them all!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-Pikdude**


	4. Chapter Four: A Small Voyage

The night came. A period of darkness, ordained by whatever higher power existed as the time for rest. The dark held no rest for Mozenrath.

For whatever reason, he required less sleep than the average human. Instead of eight hours, he only needed around four. Which wouldn't have been a problem if not for the stirrings.

During the day, Mozenrath's intellect was formidable. At night, it truly came alive. When most minds were winding down, his kicked into high gear. He was filled with a rampant energy that drove him to stalk the well-worn carpets of his hallways until all hours of the morning. Lately, it had gotten worse, and he was lucky to get two hours out of every twenty-four asleep.

His thoughts whirled and fought for attention. Many of them took the form of voices, whispering advice and observations incessantly. Sometimes, when the voices were especially loud, he could feel the slowly creeping madness, threatening him with its looming terror. He dreaded nothing more than to suffer the ignominy of a slow fall into insanity.

His feet moved of their own accord, steering him without conscious thought towards her door. More and more, he'd found himself stopped here in his nightly wanderings. He would open the door ever so slightly, moving it until he could see in just a hair- until he could see her. Something about the sight of her quieted the voices, if only for a little while. It mystified him as to why.

He stood outside the door, debating internally. Finally, he reached out to open the door. He'd scarcely touched the old wood when it swung open to reveal Sadira, clad only in a long, loose sandy-colored robe. Part of him was paralyzed that she'd discovered him. The other part was secretly pleased she'd been waiting for him.

"Can't sleep?" She inquired, an eyebrow raised curiously. She must have seen the answer in his eyes, since she stood aside and gestured for him to enter. He hesitated for a moment and walked inside.

Sadira came in behind him and tossed a small log in the fire. It slowly caught and burned, producing a tiny bit of light to beat at the night's darkness. Its soft glow was comforting, as was the fraction of heat it gave off. She sat in front of the fire and patted the floor next to her. He sat.

There was a silence that stretched on for a long time. Both were comfortable in it, being accustomed to long periods of abject loneliness. It was Sadira who finally broke the silence.

"Moze," She said softly, using a shortened form of his name (he wasn't quite sure how he felt about this), "Why do you wear that Gauntlet all the time? I mean, I can tell its a really powerful artifact, but you never seem to take it off…" His gaze cut her off. He had the most wonderful eyes, golden and shining softly in the firelight. They seemed to glow of their own accord and his pupil seemed ringed in silver. She saw a deep, old wisdom in those eyes now.

"The Gauntlet," He said almost in a sigh. "My blessing and my curse. Nearly unlimited power- but, as with all things-" He pulled off the Gauntlet- "It comes at a price." She gasped despite herself. She didn't know what she'd expected- a horribly mangled arm or something- but it wasn't this.

The arm was there all right, and seemed to be fully intact, except for the fact that it was missing all its flesh. The bone was clean and slightly yellowish, and looked surprisingly small without its metal covering. All the way to the elbow, he had an entirely bone arm. His finger bones clicked as he clenched them in a fist.

After a moment he pulled the Gauntlet back on and sat facing the fire. He seemed troubled. She changed the subject.

"Why are your eyes gold?" Those eyes turned to face her, seemed to lose a little bit of the seriousness that all too often occupied them.

"That, I inherited from my mother." He gestured at the room around them. "I originally had this room built for her, in case she ever came to visit." He paused for a moment. "She didn't."

"How is she, your mother?" The words found their way out before she could stop them. Damn her incessant curiosity, anyways.

"She's nice enough for a minor goddess, I suppose."

"A minor goddess?"

"She's a Bastite, the feline people. I inherited a few of their traits, like the eyes, and a couple other-" His eyes narrowed as she reached out and started rubbing his head.

_What. No. She. Is. Petting. Me. _His thoughts became jumbled after that because it felt amazing. Despite himself, a purring sound emerged from somewhere in his chest. She laughed softly, a wonderful sound, and withdrew her hand. His eyes glinted wickedly.

"My turn." Sadira's breath caught as his hand touched her face. Electricity sparked when he touched her skin, taking her breath away. He slowly felt down the length of her scar, tracing it with his thumb. She blushed and averted her eyes. She knew full well how the scar looked, how it ruined her face. So his next words came as a surprise.

"You're beautiful." They were so blunt, so direct, that for a minute she didn't recognize them as a compliment. When she did, her face flushed even further and she opened her eyes to see his golden ones peering intently into hers. She was paralyzed, unable and unwilling to look away.

"Who gave this to you?" This time his voice contained a hint of anger. Instantly, she was transported back to that awful moment. Yelling, anger, a flash of light on the blade… She didn't realize she was crying until she felt Mozenrath's slender, strong arms around her.

This was Mozenrath, evil sultan of the land of Black Sands, assured psychopath and quite possible sociopath, murderer of dozens if not hundreds- but that didn't matter. He was holding her and that was the only thing that mattered.

She must have fallen asleep in his arms, but when she woke up he was gone. She wondered if it had all been a dream. Then her gaze fell on the neatly folded pile of clothes at the foot of her bedroll. She smiled.

She never folded her clothes.

It hadn't been a dream.

The morning dawned and Sadira sat down to breakfast with Mozenrath. He greeted her politely and gave no sign that he remembered the previous night. His gold eyes met hers steadily and betrayed nothing of his emotions. They ate in companionable silence for a while, Mozenrath perusing his notes as they did so. Sadira finally broke the silence.

"So, what's the next step, Moze?" She nonchalantly leaned back in her chair, throwing her feet up on the table. Distaste flitted across Mozenrath's expression.

"I eat on this table, you know." She grinned wickedly but removed her feet. "We'll wait a while, give some time for paranoria and fear to set in among the rest of the targets. With luck, they'll leave the country and we won't have to kill them." Sadira raised an eyebrow.

"Afraid of shedding more blood?" Mozenrath scoffed.

"Hardly. The less effort we expend the better. It's much more efficient that way." Efficiency was big with Mozenrath.

"So what do we do in the meantime?"

"Prepare, train, come up with strategies. I have a couple of lowlifes to interrogate as well. Mal has earned himself a slow death."

"What about me? Torture isn't my thing." Mozenrath paused. He'd never really stopped to consider what Sadira might do in her spare time. He shrugged.

"What do you do?" Sadira stood up.

"A little of this, a little of that. I'd like a lab space to work in." Mozenrath gave her a sharp glance.

"You want to work in _my _lab?" She smiled sweetly.

"If it isn't too much trouble." He sighed irritably.

"Fine. You may have one table."

"One table-" She exploded into muttered swearing and oaths. He rather enjoyed her reaction. He stood.

"In the meantime, I'm going to see Mechanikles. I have some questions about articulated joints for him." He swept out of the room without another glance.

Mechanikles was famous for his automaton designs. Sadira forgot her anger and jumped to her feet, hurrying after Mozenrath. This was a rare opportunity- meeting the mad genius of Greece! The dungeons were down a corridor and seven flights of stairs, with guards posted on each one. Their blank eyes stared at Sadira as she walked past, sending a chill down her spine. Finally they reached a wide, open chamber. A flat table stood in the middle of the room. Another table lay off to the side, holding all sorts of implements. Some still had blood on them.

"Bring me Mechanikles," Mozenrath ordered a guard, and began carefully cleaning his tools. The guard returned a moment later. He was silent. "Well?" Mozenrath demanded.

"Prisoner Zero-Two-Two is not in his cell."

"_What!?"_

The automaton, faithful to its orders, responded accordingly.

"Prisoner Zero-Two-Two is not-"

"I know what you said!" A human might have been confused or hurt. The automaton was no longer anything close to human and felt neither. It merely fell silent and stood there, awaiting further orders. Mozenrath fumed silently for a minute, then addressed Sadira. "Fetch your weapons and cloak, then tell Ragül to get his ass down here _now._"

Sadira just looked at him challengingly. "Is that how you're going to address me? Like one of your servants?"

Mozenrath was taken aback by this frank disobedience. "I- We-" He stuttered under Sadira's pointed gaze, finally giving up. "Please."

She nodded. "That's better." She left and returned in due course, the demon in tow. Ragül handed Mozenrath a large staff with two solid orbs of metal on each end. He spun it once, nodded, and stalked off into the gloom.

Mechanikles's cell was nothing special. A few square feet of dirt and solid iron bars. A bedroll lay in one corner and a desk in the other. There were a few scattered pages of notes, a single gear, and naught else. The cell was empty.

Sadira had to hand it to Mozenrath- the man knew how to investigate. Within ninety seconds of entering the cell, he'd inspected the bars, door and walls and concluded he'd escaped through the floor. Another thirty seconds revealed a cleverly covered-up tunnel dug under the cell. He smashed through the layer of sand covering the hole and dropped in, swiftly moving down its length. Sadira scrambled to follow and Ragül brought up the rear- a fact that made her strangely nervous.

"So," Sadira began, more to break the silence than anything, "What are you going to do to Mechanikles when we find him?" Mozenrath responded with a scowl.

"I'm going to cut off his feet." His expression was murderous. Sadira shut up. Now was not a good time to press him.

There was a splash as Mozenrath's foot landed in water. He summoned a light. It revealed the tunnel descending underwater.

"He tapped into an underground river and followed it out to the ocean," Ragül observed tonelessly. Mozenrath snapped and pointed. The demon dived in and disappeared into the gloom.

"He's going to confirm that. We're going to hit the docks." He concentrated and teleported them back to his compound.

Sadira looked him up and down. "You're going to go like that?" She referred to his opulent clothes.

"I am the Sultan of the Black Sands. They will answer my questions."

"Like hell they will. They won't tell you anything."

"I can't interrogate _all _of them."

"Nor should you. Go change into common clothes. I'll show you how it's done." It took a half hour, much cajoling, and one threat to cut off his manhood while he was sleeping to get Mozenrath to comply, but he did. He stood clad in simple clothes and a dark scowl. Sadira nodded. "That's better." She herself threw on a niqab that covered her completely but left little eye-holes she could see out of. She hated them, but going without would invite trouble.

She took the lead as they took to the streets. Agrabah's slums were a maze of tightly knit buildings, ramshackle huts and a constant flood of the lower echelons of humanity. Sadira paused for a moment to breathe deeply. She remembered all the smells with fondness- bread baking, the sharp tint of the air, the acrid odor of cat urine… She made a face. Okay, maybe not _all _the smells. Still, this was where she'd grown up, and she remembered every detail.

The slums had merchants for every commodity, including food, magic talismans, and slaves. She'd waged her own private war against the slavers for many years. She noted where the slavers had set up and made a note to come after them later. She turned her head and was surprised to see Mozenrath looking at a slaver with disgust. She could see the Gauntleted hand clenched tightly.

"Vile filth," he practically spat. "When I'm in control here I will personally make sure each and every one of these scum dies." Her respect for him went up a notch.

A nearby urchin overheard him and slipped away. Neither of them noticed.

The rarest commodity of all was information, and Skov was privy to all of it. He was a foreigner, but no one knew where from. All he would ever say was that where he came from, snow fell nearly all year- a statement that inevitably brought a round of laughter. Snow? Snow was a silly myth.

Mysterious origins aside, Skov had landed in Agrabah and quickly bullied his way to the top of the criminal world by selling opium. Once he'd amassed a small fortune, he'd dropped the opium and turned his attention to a considerably more rare item: information. His network of informants stretched into all levels of society, including the Palace. Nothing went on in the city that he didn't know about. And for a price, you could know too.

Sadira noticed movement in the crowd and leaned towards Mozenrath. "Don't panic. Follow my lead." No sooner had she said it than two knives were pressed into their backs and hard voices ordered them to cooperate.

They were led down back alleys until they were hopelessly lost and then shepherded into a building. The door was shut and locked behind them. Inside was a table and three chairs. One of them was occupied.

Skov was skinny as a twig and about six foot six. He was built in that lean way that was deceptively strong. He had his feet thrown up on the table. He had an easy way of speaking and his strange accent invited curiosity.

"Friends! Come, come, sit down." He gestured to the chairs. Mozenrath chose instead to stand, cross his arms, and stare daggers at the man. Sadira sighed and sat down. Why did all males feel the need to assert their dominance?

"I demand to know why I've been treated like this," He began. "Do you know who I am?"

"I know who you are, where you live and how many torches there are in your bedroom hallway." Sadira had to suppress a snort at the way he'd disarmed Moze. He turned livid but sat down without a word.

"Now, with that out of the way, we can get down to business." He casually inspected his nails. "What does Mozenrath the half-Bastite Sultan of the Black Sands want with me? Moreover, what's he doing with Sadira, the stalker in the night?" Sadira was surprised but not very much. She threw off her niqab.

"Alright, Skov, here's how it is," She said. "Moze here is looking for a Greek, by name of Mechanikles. We think he's been down this way. What do you have on him?" He closed his eyes to consult his formidable intelligence.

"Little insane Greek man?" A nod of confirmation. "Never heard of him." Mozenrath started to rise angrily.

"What do you mean-" Sadira interrupted him by throwing a coin on the table. Skov scooped it up and examined it critically.

"Oh, that Greek. Yes, he's been down this way. He boarded a ship a few hours ago." Another coin.

"Headed where?"

"Greece." Sadira nodded.

"Thank you, Skov." He waved a big hand.

"No problem, Sadira." They both stood up and shook hands. "Pleasure doing business with you. Take care of your man there." She looked puzzled.

"He's not my man."

The corner of Skov's mouth twitched up. "Right." Sadira bowed and left the house. Mozenrath lingered behind. "Something on your mind?" Skov asked.

"How did you know I'm half-Bastite?"

"I recognize one of your mother's people."

"You know my mother? Is she in town? What's she doing?" Skov laughed, deep and long.

"No price could get that out of me. I'm more scared of her than I'll ever be of you. Now get out." He waited until they were both long gone, then addressed a bookshelf that was off to the side. "I never saw a stranger pair."

The bookshelf swung open and an old man hobbled out. His hair was white with age, but his eyes remained sharp.

"Nor a more perfect one."

* * *

**About a year ago**

The old man lived in a ramshackle hut very similar to the one he'd taught her in. Spartan in its accommodations, barely able to keep out the weather, and absolutely covered in books. Tomes of magic, studies, page upon page of notes all scribbled on in his illegible hand- these covered the floor, his bed, and the one chair there was. The old man hobbled over to his small cook stove to brew something she didn't recognize. The smell was exotic and delectable.

She hovered uncertainly near the door until he pushed a cup of the brew in her hands. It was warm to the touch. A small wisp of steam curled off of it. He sat down and she made do by sitting cross-legged on the ground. She carefully sipped the drink. It was delicious.

"Thank you, Master," she said, subconsciously reverting to how she'd addressed him when she'd been his student. "This is very good. What is it?" He took a long pull from his cup before answering.

"I know not what the locals call it, but to me it is Flame. In excessive quantities it is deadly, but when brewed properly it acts as a catalyst to your energy production and tastes quite good." Sadira gingerly sipped the drink again, now aware she might be drinking death in a cup. After a moment, she was surprised as she felt her aura swell with sudden energy.

"I'd like the recipe for this if I may," Sadira cautiously put forward. The old man snorted.

"Still impudent and impatient. Hush, child. I brought you here to tell you something far more important than tea recipes." Sadira was paying attention now.

"What is it?"

"You know the Sand Witch ways were already dying out by the time you became one." It was true. Sadira had discovered an amulet that had unlocked her potential and led her to the ruined Palace of the Sand Witch Empire when she was about sixteen. The only instruction she'd received had been from scrolls left behind and one very old witch who'd eventually handed her off to the old man. "The Seer has died. You are the last one left now."

The news hit Sadira like a hammer blow. By all accounts, the Seer had been around for countless millennia. It was impossible!

"But how?" The old man sighed. Usually he sighed out of exasperation, but this time it contained… emotion. Buried and suppressed, but there nonetheless.

"I was there. Here." He handed her a piece of sandstone, intricately layered and shiny-smooth. It was beautiful.

"What is-" she was cut off as her vision cut out to be replaced by completely different surroundings. She couldn't turn her head or, indeed, move any part of her body. She was seeing through the old man's eyes- his memory? Was that even possible?

It seemed the case as the scene progressed into what she recognized as the Seer's chambers. The Seer herself was facing out a window, looking into the sunset. She felt herself stabilize as her perspective stopped.

"You sent for me?" His voice echoed in her head and produced the very curious sensation of someone else talking with her mouth. The Seer turned.

The most venerated of the sand witches, the Seer was so named because she was gifted with the power to see into the future. She'd lived a very, very long life that couldn't be measured in years. She had seen the beginnings of the order and she'd lived to see the end.

"It is time." Her voice was cracked with age but strong.

"What will become of the order?"

"It will be Sadira's choice. To carry it on or let it fade away."

"So she is the new Seer?"

"No. There will be another Seer, but it will not be her. This I have foreseen."

"So what is she?" The old woman's gaze was solemn.

"She is the Empress of the Sand Witches." There was a silence as her words sank in.

"She is young and full of anger. Surely there's someone else." Sadira could just picture the old man's concerns raging through his mind. They mirrored the ones in hers. The Seer shook her head.

"There is no one else. It is up to her now." Her vision moved. The old man had bowed.

"As you wish." His voice was still full of criticism.

"Do not be so quick to judge Sadira," The Seer cautioned. "I foresee that she will change. She will meet someone that can help her." She stopped suddenly, a look of perfect clarity coming over her wrinkled face. "It is time. Take care of her. Goodbye, old friend." She stiffened and began to dissolve into sand. The sand hung in the air, thousands of shining particles gleaming in the sun- and then they were gone.

"Goodbye," The old man said softly. The memory faded to be replaced by the interior of the old man's hut.

"You are the Empress now," The old man said quietly. Sadira looked at him.

"Am I ready?"

His voice was like the crack of a whip.

"Of course you're not ready, you impudent child!" She smiled.

"Thank you, Master." Something that could have been a smile flitted across his face. It was gone too quickly to be sure.

"Now get out and leave me to my work." She stood and bowed and departed. A cat in the corner of the room stood and stretched.

"I don't know why you called me here just to see this," it complained, its golden eyes full of irritation. "I was having quite a lovely dinner."

"Someday, you'll see," replied the old man. His eyes were focused on something far away. "You'll see."

* * *

**Present Day**

Sadira jolted awake and threw the blankets off of herself, swinging her legs out of the small bunk in her cabin. The ship was a modest one that Mozenrath had commandeered to get to Greece. The plentiful gold coins had helped to grease the wheels. She went out and stood on the deck, feeling the chill night air whip around her and enjoying the smell of the sea.

The meeting with the old man and her rise to power (if a defunct office in an extinct organization counted as power) had been near the end of her voyage. It had been about a year since and in that time she'd accomplished nothing. No recruits, no training, nothing.

"What on earth do you call this? It certainly isn't a knot. I know what a knot looks like and this _mess _is not a knot." Mozenrath's voice drifted across the ship. Sadira smiled.

_Maybe not nothing, _she mused silently. _Maybe something. _

A seagull called, a wave broke across the bow and the ship continued to sail.


End file.
